


Mrs. Azkaban

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, F/M, Marriage Law Fic, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-04-06 21:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: The Ministry of Magic forces every unattached witch and wizard in the country to marry. Hermione Granger tries to fight for the right to stay single…and spectacularly fails. A Marriage Law fic. Well, not really. Dramione.





	1. A Call to Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> A/N: Updated 7/3/18. If you’re new to this story, welcome! If you’re a returning reader, I’ve updated all the posted chapters with help from my lovely new beta lolitaweasley! The content is the same, but it’s much cleaner now.

The scene at the Hog’s Head looks vaguely familiar. Twenty witches and wizards sit in a rough circle filling a dusty corner of the pub. They look at each other with some uncertainty and wariness, but mostly with impatience.

“Can we get a move on, Hermione? The store’s not going to open itself,” says George, a tall, gangly man with long, shaggy hair. He sits on the edge of a bench, one leg fidgeting with excess energy, and forearms propped on his knees as if readying his body to spring into action at any moment.

“Don’t know why we even need to open so early. No one comes into a joke shop at eight in the morning on a Monday,” grumbles an even taller and ganglier man lounging next to him. His hair, matching George’s shocking shade of nectarine, is styled much shorter. They are brothers.

“If you don’t like it Ronniekins,” says George, “you can start your own joke shop called ‘Won-won’s Widdikulus Whimsies,’ and you can open your store whenever you wake up after lunch. But, until then, you work at Wheezes, which means you come in early and open at eight.”

‘Ronniekins’ turns a shade of red that clashes with his hair and issues a rude retort, which only serves to make the others groan in exasperation. Someone moans, “I haven’t had enough coffee to put up with this shite,” while another whispers angrily, “You’re referring to your own mother, Ron. Show some respect!”

“Hermione,” says Harry, a raven-haired man who wears round-rimmed spectacles about a hundred years out of fashion, “let’s get this started. We all have to go to work soon.”

Hermione eyes the pub entrance once more, watching for any stragglers. She is expecting twenty-five people to be at this meeting; they RSVP’d.

Sighing, she turns back to the group, and all nineteen pairs of eyes urge her to commence. She relents.

“Thank you all for coming,” she begins. She produces a half-rolled scroll of parchment. The word ‘Decree’ and an official-looking seal peek through her fingers at the top of the page. “I assume everyone got one of these last night?”

Each person holds out a similar parchment—some rolled tightly, others creased from their time in pockets, and quite a few crumpled due to frustration. One even bears blackened scorch marks from when it was set on fire; though, as its owner is one Seamus Finnegan, the fire may not have been intentional.

“We have to do something about this,” declares Hermione as she violently shakes the parchment clutched in her hand. “The Ministry simply can’t force marriage on us. It’s a violation of our rights!”

A rumble of assent exudes from the crowd, and Hermione is encouraged. “It says here that all unattached persons have until the end of the month to marry someone of their choosing. After the end of the month, they’ll round up the remaining single people and marry them to each other in a mass wedding ceremony. It’s—it’s—”

“Convenient?” suggests Neville Longbottom, a bashful-looking gentleman seated at the edge of the group. He shrinks like a violet under Hermione’s glare and tries to backpedal. “The giant ceremony, I mean. Not—not the compulsory marriage thing,” he mumbles.

“Although,” interjects Michael Corner, a former Ravenclaw and, therefore, primed to be pragmatic, “it is convenient when you think about it. No fussing about marriage proposals or worrying about what you’ll do with the ring if she turns you down flat on your arse. If you’re already together, you can just get married, and if she says ‘no,’ there’s already someone waiting in the wings.”

“How romantic,” says Susan Bones scathingly. She is Michael’s girlfriend; at least, for now. The couple starts whisper-fighting, and the group collectively tunes them out.

“I agree with Hermione,” states Seamus. “I shouldn’t be forced to get married right now. My twenties are supposed to be my wild years. I’m supposed to be out bedding strangers and,” he adds with a mischievous wink, “ _experimenting_.”

Harry shoots Ron a confused look and silently mouths, “Experimenting?” The redhead only shrugs in response.

“I don’t mind,” offers Terry Boot, a diminutive man with a prematurely receding hairline. “We all have to get married sometime. If it saves me the trouble of having to go on expensive dates, then why not?”

A loud snort is heard from George’s direction. “And exactly how many Galleons have you spent on a date this year, Boot? I bet my other ear that it’s less than the change I’ve got in my right pocket.”

Terry throws an offensive sign at George, and more insults follow. Soon, the whole group is abuzz and taking sides, until Hermione yells out, “Quiet!” Their bickering halts immediately.

“This is exactly my point, Terry,” she insists. “We don’t all have to get married. Some of us may _choose_ to remain single,” she says carefully, heat creeping into her cheeks as she gazes at a spot on the floor, “because some of us may have other priorities, like traveling, or focusing on our careers.”

A pretty woman named Lavender shoots a glance at a redhead named Ginny and silently mouths, "Choose?" The redhead only shrugs in response.

“But, what can we do about it?” asks Harry. “As of yesterday, it’s the law. If we don’t follow it, we’ll be sent to Azkaban.”

“Besides, is it really that big of a deal?” shrugs Dean Thomas, who anxiously looks at his watch. “The law says we only have to be married for a year. No kids required, and no other strings attached. We don’t even have to live in the same house! If we don’t like it, we can get divorced after the law expires, and the Ministry will leave us alone.”

Lavender nods. “The Ministry _is_ giving us a choice: a year of marriage or a year in Azkaban.” She quirks a manicured eyebrow. “I’ll take marriage,” she adds smugly

The group murmurs in approval.

“No!” yells Hermione. “This is _not_ just an issue of marriage. This is an issue about freedom! We all risked our lives to fight a would-be tyrant from taking control of our government and forcing us to bend to his will. Did we suffer through all of that, just to let this Ministry do the same thing to us?”

She stands up, and her face glows with emotion as she continues. “We must take a stand against this law. We _must not_ let the Ministry threaten to take away our freedom just so it can get its way. We must fight back!”

Hermione glances around, looking each person in the eye as she challenges them. “Now, who’s with me?”

 

* * *

 

Hermione sits across from her friends. It is a smaller group this time—just Ron and Harry.

“We are _so sorry_ , Hermione,” says Harry, whose voice sounds muffled. Hermione can’t tell if her hearing is off because she’s in shock, or if sounds just don’t carry well across the thick glass between them.

Harry lays his left hand flat across the clear divider, and his face is full of sorrow as he implores, “Hang in there, Hermione. We’ll talk to Kingsley. We’ll talk to the Wizengamot. We’ll do a séance and talk to Dumbledore if it helps. One way or another, we’re going to get you out.”

She fights the strong urge to scowl at the gold ring glinting on his hand. Instead, she turns her gaze to Ron, who is on the verge of tears.

“Hermione,” he croaks. “I shouldn’t have listened to you when you told me to follow the law because no one helped you protest the Ministry. I should have just told the Ministry to just fuck off, like _you_ did, so I could be in there to protect you!”

“You can stop that nonsense, Ronald Weasley,” Hermione orders with as much bravado as she can muster. “There’s no way I would have let you be in here with me. It’s not safe for either of you. _Especially_ you, Harry, since there are so many Death Eaters in here who would love to get their hands on you.”

She watches as her two best friends droop under the heavy weight of their shared guilt, so she tries to comfort them. “Besides,” she says with a gentler tone, “Ginny would have killed me if she had to marry anyone else but you, Harry.”

Harry flashes her a shy smile, as he plays with the wedding ring on his finger.

“And Ron, I honestly don’t know how you and Pansy Parkinson haven’t murdered each other yet, but I’m pretty sure you’re a tad bit safer being married to her than you would be if the Ministry stuck you in here,” she reasons.

Ron groans and puts his head in his hands.

“This was my cause to fight for, from the beginning,” she continues, squaring her shoulders as she sits up straight. “And I knew what the consequence was. I accepted it.”

“Just always watch your back, and _be careful_ , Hermione,” Harry urges.

“Don’t worry about me, Harry,” she says quietly. “I survived almost a year in a tent with the two of you. How much worse can Azkaban be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome to my Not-really-a-Marriage-Law fic! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments/Kudos are appreciated!


	2. Dormitory A-7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: an angry warden, a crazy prison gang, and a filthy Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> A/N: Updated 7/3/18. Beta love to lolitaweasley!

It is much worse than she had imagined.

Whereas the tent she used in her Horcrux hunting days was drab and utilitarian, it was quite charming compared to her shared dormitory in Azkaban—if one may be so generous as to call it a _dormitory_. It is a windowless room with a high, mildewy ceiling, about twenty feet wide by thirty feet long. It could easily fit five bunk beds for ten prisoners.

Without the bunk beds to take up space, the room accommodates twenty-four prisoners. Twenty-five, now that Hermione has moved in.

She is shoved inside the room without ceremony, nearly stumbling over a bony leg extended in front of the entrance. The owner attached to said leg grumbles incoherently as she rights herself and faces the door.

“Why did you bring me here?” she demands from the figure looming in the corridor. “Shouldn’t I be in the women’s wing?”

Hermione scans the room, taking in the sight of woeful prisoners around her—some sprawled carelessly in the middle of the floor, and others curled up against the wall. Only a few of them look up at the sudden commotion, but none of them show any real reaction to her presence.

The figure at the door ducks under the threshold and enters the room. His imposing height is accented by his thick neck and broad shoulders. He reminds Hermione of Hagrid, the half-giant gamekeeper at Hogwarts; except, Hagrid had never looked at her like she was gum on the bottom of his favorite boot.

His name is Branimir Gideon. He is currently the warden of Azkaban and—Harry warned her before she arrived—formerly an Auror with a spotty reputation.

“ _Women_ ’s wing?” he repeats, a sneer coloring his gruff voice. “You’ve been in this prison for—what? Five minutes? And you’re already requesting special accommodations?”

Hermione swallows down the panic building up in her chest. “Surely you can’t expect me to sleep in this room? It’s probably full of murderers, and…and rapists…”

The burly warden only snorts at her distress. “Azkaban doesn’t have a special wing for women. There aren’t enough women convicts in this place that they get their own special wing, with their own special guards.”

Gideon hovers over her, thrusting his large-boned face close to hers. She fights to keep her chin up, meeting his eyes as he glares down at her. “Your war hero status isn’t going to give you special treatment in here, Miss Granger. So you may want to rein in that uptight, princess attitude and learn to keep your fucking head down.”

He pivots and storms out of the room without another word. A sour-faced guard slams the metal door shut, leaving her alone with her new cellmates.

Hermione carefully picks her way through the room, avoiding limbs randomly strewn in her path. She finds an empty patch of floor near the far wall and decides it to be the best place to settle in, both because it is relatively devoid of muck and because it seems to be an easily defendable position.

She leans her back against the wall and slides down, pulling her knees to her chest as she surveys the dormitory. The prisoners remain where they were when she was tossed in, their grime-covered bodies filling the room with heat and human stench.

She does, however, feel a curious gaze on her as she huddles in the perimeter, so she draws further into herself, hoping to avoid inspection.

 

* * *

 

_Her lungs burn as she runs through the broken hallway. She has been running for a long time, if her groaning muscles are any indication, but her limbs and chest feel ice-cold. In the distance, she hears a succession of rumbling blasts, followed quickly by shrill, panicked screams. She doesn’t know if she’s running toward the commotion or away from it._

_She reaches a staircase. As the ground trembles from another wave of explosions, she makes the split-second decision to go up._

_But when she puts her foot down on the first step, it disappears. The momentum throws her body forward and down, and she falls. Her stomach feels stuck in her throat_ _—she can’t scream as she drops into the bottomless pit._

Hermione pitches forward as she wakes. Her forehead makes sudden contact with a hard surface that she immediately realizes is someone’s shin. Her eyes travel up the line of the lean body towering over her until they settle on a familiar face.

He is covered in filth from an unknown number of days without a proper bath. The grey soot dulls his bright hair and makes his pale skin look ashen, but there is no mistaking those sharp cheekbones and that aristocratic nose. And that derisive scrutiny in his eyes as he looks down at her—as though he was wearing newly-pressed Armani, and _she_ was the grubby one.

He bends down and places a knee on the ground as he peers curiously into her face.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Draco Malfoy asks. His voice is raspy, as if from disuse.

“What?” She blinks up at him, still trying to register his presence.

“You finally snapped, and you killed one of them,” he says with a smirk. “Or both of them. _Please_ tell me it was both of them.”

“Have you gone mad? What are you talking about, Malfoy?” she asks, feeling both incredulous and confused.

“You killed Potter and Weasley,” he clarifies, and his lips transform into a semblance of a grin. He slides over to the wall and sits down next to her. “Tell me how you did it, Granger. And spare no details.”

Hermione sputters a response. “Of course, I didn’t kill them, you absolute arse! Why would I do such a thing?”

He holds up a hand and counts the reasons on his fingers. “Because they’re fucking idiots. Because they’re fucking annoying idiots. Because they’re fucking annoying idiots who can’t tie their shoelaces without your explicit instruction. Because they’re—”

“All right, that’s enough,” she interrupts what she assumes to be a long list. “No, I haven’t committed any murders.”

Draco looks intrigued. “Then, why in the hell are you in here, Granger?”

She tells him. He heaves and coughs, and Hermione realizes that he is struggling as his body tries to remember how to laugh.

“So, you’ve all defeated a dark lord and locked up all his remaining followers, yet you’ve still managed to fuck everything up,” he taunts, with apparent glee.

“Well, it wasn’t my idea,” she argues, waving her arms at her surroundings. “Obviously.”

“What in Merlin’s name was the Ministry thinking?” he marvels.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It was all very sudden; there was no notice, no warning. I work— _worked_ —at the Ministry, and I would have heard rumblings and gossip for something as far-reaching as this law, but there was none.”

“Huh,” Draco says indifferently.

They sit in silence for only a minute when he pushes himself off the ground and walks away.

“Where are you going?” Hermione yelps, feeling inexplicably abandoned.

Draco looks at her impassively and shrugs. “I came over to hear about Potter-and-or-Weasley’s gruesome demise. Now that I know you haven’t killed them yet, there’s no reason for me to talk to you.”

“You’ve got an appointment with more interesting conversationalists, have you?” she asks, insulted.

“No,” he replies brusquely. “I don’t talk to anyone in this godforsaken place. I’d advise you to do the same, Granger. If you want to survive Azkaban.”

He stalks away, the outline of his body swallowed up by a darkened corner of the room.

 

* * *

 

Hermione’s dormitory is assigned the second shift at meals, so it is already mid-morning by the time they shuffle into the cafeteria for breakfast.

She picks up a plastic tray and falls in line for food. The attendant slops down a lump of brown something and smothers it with a darker brown liquid and motions for her to move along.

The room is crowded; she estimates over a hundred people packed in the room—prisoners in black-and-gray striped jumpsuits and guards in dark blue uniforms. _Auror school rejects_ , Ron calls them, rather insolently. Although, with so many prisoners in Azkaban these days, _real_ Aurors get assigned here to fill in whenever they need more guards on staff.

She pushes her way through the mass of bodies to an empty metal table. She sits down and is readying herself to bravely dig into her mystery meal when a fist slams on the table, making her tray jump an inch off the surface.

“Well, look at what we got here, Conrad,” barks a deep voice.

Hermione sees a few men walk into the periphery of her vision and can feel the presence of others behind her.

“Looks like we got ourselves a trespasser, Marlow,” sneers the bald man she assumes to be Conrad.

Marlow, the man who had punched the table, is now roughly rapping a finger on the metal surface to make a point. “This here is _Pride_ territory, bitch. If you ain’t Pride, you ain’t belonging here.”

“Maybe we should teach her a lesson,” cackles a voice over her shoulder, and the others laugh mirthlessly.

Hermione’s heart races as she searches for a guard. Her gaze pulls up to the gallery above the cafeteria. Warden Gideon leans his elbows on the railing, observing her with interest. He neither orders nor motions for his guards to come to her aid.

She notices the men shuffle closer when a lively voice calls out, “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Her head whips around, and the men behind her part, revealing a wiry young man with a bright smile.

“Sorry about this, gentlemen,” he says genially. “She’s new here, and she doesn’t know that this is Pride turf.”

He takes Hermione’s tray in one hand and her elbow in another, dragging her away from the group before they could think to protest.

“You better teach your bitch,” Marlow yells after them when they are already well out of danger. “Or, the next time she puts a toe on Pride territory, The Cougar is going to rip her to shreds!”

“Won’t happen again,” her rescuer shouts as he hurries Hermione across the cafeteria. He sets her tray on a table and pushes down on her shoulder, forcing her to sit.

Hermione gapes at him as he settles down next to her, and when she finally regains the use of her voice, croaks, “Nott? Theodore Nott?”

“The one and only,” he replies with an impish grin, which then wavers. “Well, actually, no,” he says sheepishly. “ The ‘junior’ one, I suppose.”

“What—” she stammers, glancing back at the rambunctious group now gathered around her vacated table. “What just happened?”

“You were almost beaten to a bloody pulp by members of the Pride gang,” he warns. “You have to be careful with that group, Granger. They’re vicious, and their leader, The Cougar, is fucking insane.”

“Their leader is called _The Cougar,_ and they call themselves the _Pride_?” she asks, squinting her eyes in confusion. “Cougars don’t run in prides. That doesn’t make any sense.”

He shrugs. “They’re a prison gang, Granger, not a society of geniuses.”

Hermione sighs. “Well, er, thank you, I should say.”

He takes a spoonful of brown mush from her tray and says, “Not a problem! Just looking out for an old school chum. Our lot has got to stick together, right?”

“Sure?” she agrees, though the situation remains unclear to her. She watches Theo as he eats half the contents of her tray in mere seconds.

“So, who did you off?” he asks in an aloof tone. “The ginger one, right? I always did think he was the more annoying one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You killed Don Weasley. I always figured when you snapped, he would be the first one to go. You always seemed more peeved with him than anybody else.”

“No, I didn’t kill _Ron_!” she says in defense. “I didn’t kill anybody! All I did was refuse to marry a Ministry-assigned spouse!”

“Really?” he asks with a skeptical quirk of a brow. “I’m sure getting married would have been better than being in here.”

“They told me I had to marry Mundungus Fletcher,” she spits out the name.

Theo pushes her tray away as if he suddenly lost his appetite. “Ugh. I don’t blame you, then. I would choose Azkaban, too.”

“Thanks,” she retorts, sarcastically. She picks up her spoon and is about to shove what is left of the mystery food in her mouth when a bell rings, signaling the end of mealtime.

“Let’s go, Granger,” Theo orders as he stands up. “You’d better stick with me today. I’ll show you the ropes around here so you don’t wander into another gang turf and get your teeth knocked out.”

He wanders off; she sighs. Disposing her tray, she quietly follows him out of the cafeteria.

 

* * *

 

Theo brings her outside to the yard, where he points out the spots and the equipment that have been claimed by various gangs.

“Those benches over there are Hippogriff equipment. Don’t even go near them, unless you want thirty-pound weights thrown at your head,” Theo advises. “That shady spot by the fence is where the Rowdy Reds like to hang out. I once saw them shove a man’s head through the bars of that fence when he got too close to their turf. The guards had to saw him out.” His face pinches in discomfort, but the expression is almost immediately replaced with excitement as he points out another group. “And, those blokes under the portico are called the Wilde Boys.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. “If I go near their turf, they’ll go berserk and murder me?”

“No, actually, they’re more of a book club than a real gang,” he admits. “They named their group after Oscar Wilde.”

Hermione takes note of this as they arrive at a spot near the eastern wall, where two men were having a muted conversation.

“Hey, gents,” Theo says, and he introduces Hermione.

“Douglas Willoughby,” offers a short man with glasses and a crooked smile. She shakes his extended hand.

“Giovanni Kay,” adds the other man, who, with his orange hair, may be a long-lost Weasley cousin. “Please call me Gio.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hermione responds habitually. They exchange more pleasantries, and then she turns to Theo and says, “I’ve got to admit, I’m very surprised to find you all so—uh—friendly and _lively_. After meeting my cellmates yesterday, I would have thought everyone around here walked around all gloomy and sad.”

“Where are you situated?” asks Gio.

“I’m assigned at A-7.”

“Ooh,” acknowledges Willoughby. “Bad luck, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dorm A-7 is said to be haunted by evil spirits,” Theo explains, fluttering his fingers in front of him playfully. “Everyone who’s been assigned to the room says that there’s always weird shite that happens there.”

“Lights going out for no reason, sudden drops in temperature,” Willoughby recounts. “Some people claim to hear loud screaming in the middle of the night. They say most prisoners who stay there go mad from paranoia and sleep deprivation.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, and she responds skeptically. “That sounds an awful lot like when a Dementor is around.”

Theo shakes his head. “The Ministry banned all the Dementors from Azkaban. You know, since the whole, ‘Voldemort’ thing,” he says, drawing quotation marks in the air.

“’Voldemort thing?’ Weren’t you a Death Eater?” she asks, bewildered by his nonchalance

“I never participated in raids or fights,” he answers stiffly. “I just paid my monthly dues and only went to the mandatory meetings.”

She gawks at him, but he continues on, “Anyway, Granger, keep an eye out for that evil spirit, will you? There’s a running bet throughout the whole prison on whose ghost it’s meant to be.”

“The pool is up to a hundred and twenty sticks of cigarettes,” confides Gio eagerly. “Would you like to join in?”

Hermione starts to launch into a lecture on the importance of lungs for living. As she studies the excited faces of her new friends, however, she halts the impulse.

Instead, she shrugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!


	3. P.A.D.S.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Hermione tackles a problem the best way she knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> A/N: Updated 7/3/18. Beta love to lolitaweasley!

_Hermione blinks as the sunlight filters through the chasm above. The edges are out of her reach, even with her arms stretched out. She is desperate to climb out of the cave. Her limbs are stiff, and her chest is tight from the numbing cold._

_A shadow moves at the edge of the cave’s mouth. She tries to yell out for help, but there’s not enough air in her lungs to project her words._

_She jumps, trying to grab a hold of the roots that hang limply over the edge, but she only grazes them with the tips of her fingers. When she lands back down, the ground under her shifts, and she loses her balance. She lands on her hands and knees with a hard thud._

_Hermione can’t see much in the near-darkness, but she can feel that the ground is dry and smooth, the texture of a well-worn leather couch. It first begins to vibrate; then it begins to shudder; then it begins to quake._

_She glances up to where a shadow now peers over the edge of the chasm._

_“Help me!” she rasps, and she throws her hands up futilely. “Help!”_

_The wobbling ground opens under her feet and swallows her whole._

Hermione’s head slams back against the wall as she jerks awake.

She hisses as bright lights briefly flood her field of vision. When they clear, she notices a darkened figure standing over her, and she yelps in surprise.

“Would you mind keeping the fucking noise down?” states a haughty, irritated voice. “Some of us would like to get some sleep.”

Grunting in pain, Hermione rubs the spot where her head had thumped against the stone wall. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “These nightmares are getting ridiculous. I haven’t had this many since Harry, Ron, and I were on the run hunting for—”

“I really don’t give a shit, Granger,” Draco rudely interrupts. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you came here.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, hoping he can discern her sour face in the dim lighting. “It’s not like I can control what I do in my sleep. Don’t _you_ ever have nightmares?”

“I would _love_ to have nightmares again,” he spits venomously. “I would love to dream of ghosts and monsters. I’d even take dreams of a strip-dancing Dumbledore because it would mean that I would be _asleep_ and not talking to you in the middle of the fucking night.”

She sighs, tampering down the swell of irritation rising from her chest. “I don’t know what to tell you, Malfoy. I don’t suppose there’s much I can do if I keep having these god-awful dreams.”

Draco glowers at her wordlessly; she shifts uncomfortably on the ground.

“Don’t sleep here by yourself,” he says abruptly. Her eyebrows lift in surprise. He rolls his eyes before explaining, “I used to have nightmares when they reassigned me here a year ago. They stopped when I settled among the other prisoners, rather than sleep in a corner by myself.”

“Oh,” Hermione replies flatly. She looks down at his feet while she fidgets with her thumbnail, feeling unexpectedly bashful when she asks, “Er, I don’t suppose there’s any extra space in your area of the room?”

Draco grunts derisively. “That wasn’t an invitation for you to join me,” he says, his tone biting. “Go find your own pile of hoodlums.” He pivots on his heels and marches back to the shadowy part of the room, where many of the prisoners lie en masse.

 

* * *

 

Hermione leans against the east wall of the rectangular yard, periodically wiping the lines of sweat trickling down her forehead. The harsh sun bakes the grey stone under her feet, but she dares not take a sliver of shade near the Rowdy Red’s territory.

“Bloody ridiculous,” she grumbles.

“I know, right?” remarks Theo, who stands next to her, drooping in the heat. He eyes the most comfortable group in the yard with envy. “It looks like there’s enough room over there for at least one or two more people. Do you think they’re still taking applications?”

“What? To join their bloody gang?” she asks, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I don’t think they take the standard paper application. You may have to do something unsavory, like steal kitchen supplies or shank a rival gang member.”

“I will do literally anything to get under that shade for ten minutes,” he murmurs as he stares longingly at the prime section of the yard.

“You’re in prison, Theo,” she warns him. “I wouldn’t advertise that too much.”

“I don’t care,” he replies flippantly, and then projects even louder, “I will do _literally anything_ to stand under that shade for ten minutes.”

It gets the attention of some of the Reds loitering in the periphery of their group. A couple of them ogle Theo with debauched interest. Hermione stands protectively in front of her friend, shooting the gang members a deadly glare.

“For Merlin’s sake, Theo,” she hisses testily. “Yard time is almost over. Keep it in your pants, will you? Literally.”

Theo swoons against the wall and whines, “But it’s so hot out here!”

“I know,” she agrees. Sweat is now flowing in a thin rivulet from her scalp down the back of her neck. She picks uncomfortably at her sweat-soaked collar. “It wouldn’t be so bad if they allowed us to take a proper shower every day. This once-a-week schedule is inhumane.”

Theo lifts and drops his shoulders as he heaves a long sigh. “Just one more way to torture us in Azkaban,” he says with a dramatic lilt. “At least we _get_ showers. I heard that when the Dementors ran Azkaban, the prisoners were never allowed baths,” he recounts and points a finger at his nose. “No sense of smell, you know?”

“I would have thought conditions would be much more improved once this place was run by wizards and witches,” she admits. Her eyes travel around to the prisoners huddled in groups, listless in the intense heat. “If I had known about such deplorable treatment, I would have submitted a formal complaint with the Ministry. Perhaps created some sort of advocacy group for the humane treatment of our prisoners.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “No one in the outside world cares about what happens to convicts, Granger.”

Hermione hums a reserved note but sets her mind to work, knowing there is likely a simple solution to her current problem.

 

* * *

 

“P.A.D.S.”

“Pads?” jests Theo. “Sorry, Granger, fresh out.”

She throws a dirty shirt at his head. They stand around a large basin in the steamy laundry room, where they are assigned to work for two hours every weekday. She dips her hands in the grey, murky water as she rubs a prison jumpsuit against a wooden washboard.

“Not pads, you idiot,” she says. “P.A.D.S. It stands for Prisoners Advocating for Dignified Status.”

“’Dignified Status?’”

“Yes.” She is unable to suppress the excitement in her tone as she explains her newest brainchild. “We’ll lobby for daily showers. Magically controlled temperature in the yard and all the rooms. A third meal every day. Beds. In other words, humane treatment!”

Theo peers at her from the corner of his eye. “You want to form an _advocacy group_ in prison? Do you really think the warden is going to listen to anything you have to say?”

She nudges her chin in the air, and resolves with stubborn determination, “He’ll have to if there are enough of us.”

“You’re assuming there are going to be any prisoners who would be interested in joining your little group,” he points out.

“Why shouldn’t they?” she asks, matter-of-factly. “It would benefit everyone if we were to band together for this cause.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Granger,” Theo insists. “Prisoners aren’t known for being altruistically motivated.”

“Help me, then,” she states. “You get on with almost everyone in this prison, from what I can see. Perhaps you could help me recruit?”

Theo purses his lips, looking deep in thought as he shakes water off a pair of large pants he is handwashing. “I guess it would be better than being a junior member of the Rowdy Reds,” he murmurs. “All right, Granger, sign me up for your goody-goody group! And, as my first act of philanthropy, I suggest that you change our name.”

Hermione frowns. “What’s wrong with P.A.D.S.?”

“I just think we can come up with something catchier. Something that will really grab the attention of our demographic.” He swings the still-wet pants in the air, and droplets splatter on Hermione’s face as his eyes light up with an idea. “How about,” he announces as he waves an open hand in the air like he is unveiling a large marquee, “‘Convicts United for Noble Treatment?’”

“C.U.N.— absolutely _not_ , Theo!” she sputters indignantly.

“Hmm, you’re right, that may be too provocative,” he ponders. He pauses briefly before asking, “What about, ‘Rights Improvement Mob for Jailbirds, Outlaws, and – ‘”

He drones on, and Hermione knows enough of her new friend to tune him out or be sucked into the inanity of his ideas. Instead, she ignores him and excitedly plans the agenda for her very first P.A.D.S. meeting.

 

* * *

 

_She runs in the dark, not seeing her path, but knowing with a sense of urgency that she needs to get away. Her lungs burn as she tries to draw oxygen from the thin, cold air._

_Something wraps around her ankle mid-stride, and she slams forward into the ground. It pulls her across the roots and rocks of the terrain until she reaches the edge of a canyon, and then she falls, and falls, and—_

“For fuck’s sake, Granger!” is shouted in her ear. Large hands grip her shoulders, shaking her awake.

“Wha—?” she mumbles in between gasps for air. She feels movement to her right and lifts her eyelids in time to watch Draco hunker down next to her.

“Did I do it again?” she sighs, shaking the fog of sleep from her head.

“Like clockwork,” he sneers. “Didn’t I tell you not to sleep by yourself? You don’t listen, do you?”

Hermione grunts in irritation. “Look around, Malfoy,” she says slowly, waving a hand around the dingy room. “There’s just no room for me to sleep anywhere else—unless I physically move some of these prisoners to make room for myself. Everyone’s pretty much claimed a spot and is not willing to share.”

“I’m not just talking about that,” he snarks. “I also told you that you shouldn’t mix with these miscreants, and, the next thing I hear, you’re trying to make waves in this prison. An advocacy group, Granger? _Really_? I remember that you were smart when we were at Hogwarts or has my memory failed me?”

“You heard about P.A.D.S.?” she asks with a glimmer of excitement that her little group is gaining some attention.

Hermione hears the annoyance in his voice when he replies, “Nott has been on my back to get me to join. Said you’re going to—and I quote— ‘Rule this prison, and formally introduce Warden Gideon to the rod stuck up his arse.’”

She cringes. “A bit enthusiastic, isn’t he?”

Draco shrugs. “Theo Nott doesn’t do things by halves. He’s either invested, or he isn’t. It’s a damned shame that his father forced him to take the Mark because he really wanted no part of it at all.”

“Like you?” she ventures.

He eyes her levelly. “I joined because I _wanted_ to be a part of the Death Eaters, like my father. I took that Mark of my own free will, and I earned my spot here in this bloody prison.”

She is silent for a moment, then prods, “The Death Eaters who joined as minors were given more lenient prison terms, right? How long do you have left on your sentence?”

“Two years,” he answers in a flat whisper. “Two more years, and they release me out into the world that I assume hates me to my very core and wouldn’t want me around.”

“That’s not true,” she says, but, at his cynical look, she corrects herself. “Okay, maybe _a little_ true. But, you would have served your full punishment by then, so hopefully, people will be a bit more open-minded about giving you a second chance.”

Draco snorts. “Your level of idealism is astonishing,” he derides. “I suddenly have a newfound respect for Potter’s stamina. Being your friend must be exhausting.”

“There’s nothing wrong with trying to make the world an ideal place,” she responds, hardening her voice with conviction.

“And incredibly stubborn, too,” Draco continues to muse. “I guess you would have to be, to have been thrown in here for such a stupid reason.”

“Not wanting to be ‘ _Mrs. Fletcher_ ’ shouldn’t be counted as being stubborn,” she defends herself.

“I don’t think it’s the ‘Fletcher’ part that got to you, though, is it?” he says, observing her with intense curiosity. “I think it’s the ‘ _Mrs._ ’ part that you really had a problem with. I wager being told you _had_ to marry really got under your skin. Goes against your incredibly staunch principles.”

She tears her eyes away from his scrutinizing gaze. “The Ministry was wrong.”

“See?” Draco says with a laugh. “ _Stubborn_.”

 

* * *

 

The common room is fairly large. A shoddy billiards table stood on one side of the room, the green baize cloth bald from overuse. Broken-in sofas line the walls, and tables and chairs are scattered throughout, where prisoners can play chess and other few board games made available to them.

Despite the amenities, the room remains empty of prisoners, aside from Hermione, Gio, and Willoughby, who all sit around a flimsy card table in one corner of the room.

“Found another one!” Theo shouts as he hustles inside, dragging a disgruntled-looking Draco in his wake. “ _Now_ , we can start.”

She gapes at Draco, who stands stonily with his arms crossed over his chest. Her eyes flicker away from him as she clears her throat. “Thank you— _all_ of you—for coming to the first meeting of P.A.D.S.”

Draco grunts irreverently, but she continues. “I know it doesn’t seem like much right now, but this is an important first step in making sure all prisoners, from here on out, will be treated with dignity.”

The redheaded man who sits on her left raises his hand.

“Uh, yes, Gio?”

“How exactly are we going to do that?” he asks courteously.

“Well, I was thinking that we’ll tackle one issue at a time,” she says, falling into the role of leadership with ease. “We’ll write up letters and circulate petitions.” A mischievous smile forms on her lips as she leans in conspiratorially. “Maybe even organize silent sit-ins in front of the warden’s office. Make some _real_ trouble for him.”

A loud scoff echoes in the large, nearly-empty room. “That’s not how prison works, Granger,” drawls a bored-looking Draco. “Peaceful protests won’t get anything done. The warden is just going to ignore you, and the other prisoners are going to kick our asses for being soft. You need to find another way if you want people to join this pathetic group or get the warden’s attention.”

“We’re a _civilized_ group, Malfoy,” she says with a sanctimonious tone. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to form your own advocacy group.”

“Maybe I will,” he sneers. “I hear the name ‘Convicts of Charitable Kindness’ is still available.”

In the periphery of her vision, she sees Theo nod and quietly confirm, “It is.”

Hermione and Draco glare sharp daggers at each other. Gio clears his throat and raises his hand again, and Hermione gestures for him to talk.

“What issue are we going to tackle first?” Gio asks, putting them back on track with their agenda.

“Showers,” she answers, turning her back on Draco. “We’ll demand the right for daily showers. I think being able to feel clean will do wonders for our morale, not to mention overall health.”

“Oh, good,” Willoughby responds, sounding chuffed. “That’s the thing I miss most about the outside. I mean, I love a good bath, but a shower every day will do nicely.”

Theo grins and nods in agreement.

“Right, then,” she says, feeling encouraged. “Let’s start off with a letter-writing campaign.”

Hermione assigns each of them this task, and she is so busy going over the important points of a strongly-worded missive that she does not register two large men enter the room.

“What the fuck are you all doing here?” one of them bellows.

“Hey, gents,” Theo greets them, a nervous twinge in his voice. “I don’t suppose you’re here for the Pads meeting?”

“ _Pads_ , eh?” the other man sneers. “This room is _Pride_ turf. You and your gang need to get the fuck out before we _make_ you.”

The two men surge toward them. Hermione shoots Theo a panicked look.

“Why didn’t you tell me this was Pride turf?” she asks in a harsh whisper.

“There weren’t any other places that we can meet without getting in trouble with the guards for loitering,” he stage-whispers back.

She sighs and signals the others to get up to leave when Theo holds out a hand to stop them.

“Wait,” Theo says. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as he starts toward their uninvited guests. “Let me handle this.”

He squares his shoulders and meets the intruders halfway, saying, “Listen, gents. Pads needs this room twice a week for our meetings.”

Both men howl with laughter in his face. “Oh, yeah? You think that we’re just going to let you have this room whenever the fuck you want?”

“Not whenever we want,” Theo reasons politely. “Just on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from two to two-thirty in the afternoon.”

The goons share an amused look, then crowd Theo’s space, saying belligerently, “And, who the fuck thinks they can make demands like this from the Pride?”

Theo glances back at Hermione with uncertainty. “Er—”

“ _Mrs._ Azkaban,” calls a cool voice. Hermione covers her face with her hands in mortification.

Draco saunters up to them and tilts his head in Hermione’s direction. “Or haven’t you heard? She’s the new big bad in this prison. Going to make waves, our fearless leader. She took on the entire Ministry of Magic on her own. Do you really think she gives a fuck about a little prison gang like yours?”

The taller convict pushes a firm finger into Draco’s shoulder. “The Cougar’s going to hear about this.”

Draco smiles malevolently. “Tell The Cougar she knows where to find the Pads. Here, in this common room. Every Tuesday and Thursday, from two to two-thirty.”

The minions huff out of the room. The shorter man picks up a chair in his path and throws it across the room before heading out the door.

Draco turns back to the group with a self-satisfied grin. When he sees Hermione’s red face, his grin grows even broader.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Hermione says through gritted teeth. “ _What the bleeding fuck_?!”

 

* * *

 

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.”

Hermione sits in front of an imposing steel desk inside a large office in the administration wing. Warden Gideon sits behind this desk, the skin above his nose pinched between a thumb and forefinger as he stares at her with profound exasperation.

“You’ve been here for less than a month,” he continues, “and you’re already the head of your own _prison gang_?”

“We’re not a prison gang,” she explains in a small voice. “We’re a—a prisoner rights advocacy group.”

“You’ve claimed a turf. You have a _moniker,_ ” he spits out. “My guards keep hearing the other prisoners mention how _Mrs. Azkaban_ is going to take over the prison. And something about me being introduced to a certain familiar rod. Have I got everything right so far?”

Hermione silently curses Theo’s far-reaching public relations campaign. She assures, in a mollifying tone, “It’s just a huge misunderstanding.”

“And the vandalism in front of the administrative offices. Is that a misunderstanding, too?”

“Some of our newer recruits from the last few days have been a _tad_ overzealous,” she says with a grimace. “Perhaps they, er, _misinterpreted_ when I told them to give you strongly-worded letters.”

“F-U-C-K-U,” says Gideon, flatly reciting the bold, painted graffiti. “You can tell them I read their letters.”

He sighs in vexation. “Miss Granger, you do realize that creating a prison gang violates a shitload of rules, don’t you? I could have your sentence extended several years for this.”

Hermione feels the blood drain from her face at the sudden comprehension.

“But you’ve been a pain in my ass ever since you got here. I don’t want you in here any longer than you want, believe me,” he says. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him. “So, I’m going to make you a deal.”

“What deal?” Hermione asks anxiously, alarmed at her suddenly dire predicament.

“I’ll let this infraction slide,” he states. “I’ll even let you keep your little ‘advocacy group.’ If you do something for me.

I need someone to keep an eye on the Death Eaters for me. Bring me back information on things they’re doing. Things they may be planning. I understand you have a couple of Death Eaters in your group already.”

Hermione gulps. “You want me to— _snitch_?—on Malfoy and Theo for you?”

“And other Death Eaters you gain access to.”

“I—I don’t know—”

“I’ll tell you what,” he offers. “I’ll even sweeten the deal. You agree to be my informant, I’ll let you and all the other prisoners,” he says, waving a finger in a small circle in the air, “get your daily showers. Make your little group happy. What do you say?”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Hermione wakes up, and she notes three things.

The first is that there is someone snoring quite loudly on her right. A prisoner whose name she cannot quite remember sits within an arm’s reach. She does not recall him being there when she went to sleep the night before.

The second thing she notes is that there are five other cellmates surrounding her little area, with enough distance between them that she can move around without disturbing anyone in their slumber. She does not remember them being there last night, either.

The final thing she realizes is that it truly is morning, and it is the first time she has awakened since falling asleep. No bad dreams, no screaming in terror.

No Malfoy to rouse her from her nightmares and yell at her to shut up.

 

* * *

 

When she arrives at the common room later that afternoon, she is greeted with a growing group of inmates. Despite her annoyance at Malfoy’s gall during their first meeting, she appreciates one thing about it: his pronouncement provided undeniable results.

Over a dozen new recruits have trickled in during the last few meetings, keen on joining “Mrs. Azkaban” on her agenda to make life a bit more bearable inside the woeful prison.

Theo notices when she enters the room; he jumps up and starts clapping. The rest of the group follow his lead, and she approaches them with cautious enthusiasm.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“We just heard the news, Granger!” Theo remarks, grabbing her by the shoulders in excitement. “The warden’s going to implement daily showers starting tomorrow! I knew we could do it!”

She sweeps her gaze around the group—from Theo’s brilliantly lit face to Willoughby’s small, reserved smile to Malfoy’s impassive countenance—and she is filled with quiet apprehension.

“Er, about that—” she starts but then is interrupted by Gio, who rushes into the room in a panic.

“Hermione!” he yells as he shoulders his way through the group to speak to her. “The Cougar! She’s on her way over _right now_ to talk to you!”

She straightens her spine at the unwelcome news. “Well, she’s simply going to have to wait until our meeting is—”

“ _Hem-hem_ ,” she hears from the doorway at her back. Hermione turns around slowly to meet the eyes of the vilest woman she has ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/Kudos are very much appreciated!


	4. Enemies and Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: An old toad, a best friend, and a man called Big Red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> A/N: Updated 7/3/18. Beta love to lolitaweasley!

“Ms. Granger,” says a lilting, saccharine voice. “Oh, dear. I can’t say I’m surprised to see someone such as yourself detained in Azkaban.”

Hermione meets the woman’s bulge-eyed stare doggedly. Her gaze does not need to wander over the woman’s broad face; nor her short, thickset figure clad in prison stripes; nor her mousy brown hair, which holds a black bow made from the same jumpsuit material.

She can quite easily place this abhorrent creature.

“Dolores Umbridge,” she snarls through clenched teeth.

Umbridge walks into the common room, closely followed by five large, muscular, bald men.

“ _Senior Undersecretary_ Umbridge,” she sweetly corrects.

A snort is heard from the group at Hermione’s back, and it has the derisive tone that Draco likes to use.

“Senior Undersecretary?” Hermione scoffs. “But I hear you’ve taken to calling yourself ‘The Cougar,’ nowadays.”

“’The Cougar,’ for your love of _cats_ , I hope?” interjects a morbidly curious Theo. “And, not— _dear Merlin—_ for any other meaning of the word.”

There is an almost imperceptible shuffle behind Umbridge as a few of the bald men suddenly find their feet intensely interesting to look at.

“ _Sweet Salazar_ ,” Theo murmurs as he heaves under his breath.

Hermione shakes her head in a vain attempt to clear the disturbing pictures her mind had quickly conjured. Umbridge smiles coldly at her.

“And I hear you call yourself ‘Mrs. Azkaban,’” says Umbridge. “How banal. Although I suppose one shouldn’t expect much creativity from someone of inferior blood.”

Theo steps forward, his mouth open and ready with a biting comeback. Three Pride members bear down on him, and Hermione grabs the back of his shirt to pull him out of their way. The men stop short in front of Hermione, effectively blocking her view of their leader.

“What do you want, Umbridge?” she yells over the wall of muscle looming over her. “You’re intruding on our group meeting.”

“Tut-tut!” Hermione hears her say. “I do hope you don’t mean to have your meeting in here, Miss Granger.”

The goon immediately in front of Hermione backs away. Umbridge steps forward in the vacated space and angles her head to glare at Hermione.

“The common room is Pride territory,” Umbridge explains in a condescending tone. “I know your kind has difficulty understanding social rules of any sort, but I assumed that your more _esteemed_ friends would have trained you better.”

Umbridge gestures to Theo and Draco—who, Hermione notices, has stepped up to her side.

“The common room is for _everyone_ ’s use,” Hermione corrects as she scowls down at the diminutive woman. It is the first time she can physically glare down at another adult, and she makes the most of her opportunity. She curls her hands into fists and takes a deliberate step in Umbridge’s personal space.

Pride members close in at the sight of their leader being threatened. They snarl at Hermione until they detect Draco and Theo each take a small step toward them. The sounds of shuffling and scraping from behind tell her that the dozen or so P.A.D.S. members have also gathered around in support.

Umbridge, likely noticing that she and her minions are vastly outnumbered, begins to retreat.

“You need to respect the rules of Azkaban, Miss Granger,” she sings warningly as she and her cronies slowly back out of the room. “The Pride has been ruling here for years. Without our firm hand, other gangs will jostle for power, and there will be chaos within these walls. See to it that you learn your place.”

The Cougar and her band of bald men stomp out of the room.

After they leave, Hermione’s shoulders sag in relief at the narrowly-avoided altercation. She takes a few bolstering breaths before turning around, a smile plastered on her face. The men are still buzzing with energy, primed for a fight.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” she continues, willing them to calm down, “let’s get this meeting to order, shall we? Who’s assigned to go over last meeting’s minutes?”

A hand goes up, and the rest of the men settle back down in the circle of chairs.

 

* * *

 

Hermione walks down the corridor of Cell Block A in a brisk pace with Theo by her side, and Draco and Willoughby trailing closely behind.

“There’s talk that The Cougar is setting up a discussion with the leader of the Hippogriffs,” Theo reports to her quietly. “It looks like she’s trying to get the other gangs on her side to put pressure on us.”

Her jaws clench in irritation. “I thought I left this political shite at the Ministry,” she mutters. “How about the Reds? Has she—”

As they pass by another corridor, she hears a loud whisper. “Psst! Hermione!” Her feet halt at the sound; down the hallway, a familiar figure wildly beckons for her to come over.

“Harry!” she squeals, both surprised and ecstatic to see her best friend. She hurries over to him, and her three shadows tag along.

She throws her arms around his neck. “What are you doing here?!”

As she pulls back, she notices that he is clad in an Azkaban guard’s uniform. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him. He puts his hands on his hips and looks ready to give her a lecture—mannerisms that he picked up from her.

“I requested for a temporary post here, while my partner at the Auror office is on medical leave,” Harry informs her.  “Hermione, just what in Merlin’s name is going on? Kingsley told me—” He stops abruptly, looking startled when he realizes they have company.

His eyes land on the tall blond, who is now casually leaning against the wall. “Malfoy?” He gapes in disbelief.

“Potter,” Draco drawls. “How disappointing to see you. I was hoping that Granger had been lying about the reason she’s here.”

Harry blinks in confusion and asks, “What would I have to do with why Hermione’s in Azkaban?”

Draco’s smile is malicious, and he opens his mouth to reply, when Hermione interrupts, “Nothing! No reason at all, Harry!”

She hears someone beside her clear his throat, and she turns to find Theo assessing Harry with blatant appreciation.

“Potter,” smirks Theo. “Nice uniform. Is it new? I like it; it suits you.”

Harry gulps loudly at Theo’s blunt approbation and half-wrangles out the word, “Nott.”

Theo continues his evident appraisal of Harry’s new uniform. Harry slowly hunches his shoulders and wraps a protective arm over his chest, in an attempt to hide his body from Theo’s languid perusal.

Hermione jabs an elbow into Theo’s side. She turns her attention back to her best friend. “Why did you request a post here? I _told_ you it’s not safe, this place is littered with evil, insane Death Eaters—”

“Hey!” chides an affronted Theo, as Draco grunts and shrugs his shoulders.

“Present company excluded,” Hermione adds while rolling her eyes. “Obviously.”

“I’m here because I heard from Kingsley that—” Harry starts to say, but he looks around at the group distractedly. “I’m sorry, but, _why_ are you all here with Hermione?” he asks the three men.

“Don’t worry, Harry, they’re part of my gang—group!” she belatedly corrects. “ _Group._ They’re members of my prisoner rights advocacy group.”

Beside her, Theo shakes his head and mouths, “Gang.” He throws up a hand sign that he pitched at their last meeting.

“We’re in a turf war with Dolores Umbridge and her prison gang,” Draco states flatly.

“What the—?!” sputters Harry, and he grabs Hermione by the elbow and drags her further down the corridor, away from the intrusive men.

“ _What the hell is going on, Hermione_?!” he whispers harshly in her ear. “First, I’m told that there’s a request that was filed with the Wizengamot about extending your sentence to three years. Now, I come here and find that you’re in a bloody _gang_ —”

“Advocacy group,” she insists.

“Whatever! You’re hanging about with a couple of Death Eaters!”

Hermione props her fists on her hips. “Theo and Malfoy are former Death Eaters who are serving their punishments for the mistakes of their youth—”

Harry holds out a hand in front of her face, perhaps knowing the beginnings of a long rant. “Sorry, Hermione, but we don’t have time to debate this right now. I have to report to the security office in a few minutes. I need you to tell me why your warden requested an extension of your sentence because he’s not being forthcoming with me.”

Hermione glances down the corridor, where the three men wait for her. Draco still rests against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at the opposite grey stone. Theo ignores her, as he is busy ogling Harry. Willoughby sees her staring at them and waves a hand shyly.

She returns her attention to Harry and quietly recounts her conversation with the warden.

“I didn’t take the deal, of course,” she says at the end of her story, “which is why I wonder that he still went through with our demands for daily shower access. And, why he hasn’t stopped us from meeting as a group.”

“Gideon has a reputation among the Aurors as being manipulative and underhanded,” Harry warns her.

“I realize that,” she replies. “I’m not taking his sudden benevolence at face value. There’s a reason why he’s been leaving us alone, and I’m going to find out.”

Harry heaves a loud sigh. “You have to be very careful here, Hermione. Kingsley was able to convince the Wizengamot to deny Gideon’s request this time. If he comes after you again, Kings doesn’t know if he’ll be able to intervene.”

Hermione frowns, despite her relief at knowing that Gideon’s vindictive move wasn’t approved. “I’ll try to stay off his radar,” she remarks, without much conviction in her voice.

Harry only looks at her with a mix of fondness, skepticism, and vexation.

 

* * *

 

Yard time has a different atmosphere now that Hermione has been crowned ‘Mrs. Azkaban.’ The east wall is now officially acknowledged by the other gangs as Pads territory, and they are given a respectful, wide berth.

Walking across the yard, Theo approaches with an excited bounce in his step. “Good news, Granger! The leader of the Rowdy Reds is willing to talk to us. Well, to you. Alone. Over there,” he points to a secluded corner of the fence. “Are you okay to go by yourself?”

She glances at Gio and Willoughby, and they both smile at her with reassurance. She nods at Theo. He turns back to the Reds and waves an arm in the air.

A massive man, grizzled and greying, separates from the group and heads to the corner of the fence. Hermione straightens her back and walks over to him with projected confidence.

“Good morning,” she greets the man she only knew as ‘Big Red.’

“Mrs. Azkaban,” he acknowledges her in a gruff voice.

“ _Hermione_ ,” she says, cringing at the nickname. “Please call me Hermione.”

Big Red shrugs. “Why did your lieutenant ask me for this meeting?”

“My—er—lieutenant asked you to meet with me,” she answers carefully, “to see if you and I can come to an agreement, of sorts, for our respective groups. You must have heard that the Pride and the Hippogriffs have been in talks over the last few days.”

Big Red’s reticent expression becomes even more unreadable. “And?”

“And,” she continues, in her best ‘presentation’ voice, “I know that you’re aware of how dangerous that is for your group. I’ve heard that the Hippogriffs have been encroaching on your territory for a year. The Pride is the largest gang here, and if they throw the weight of their support with the Griffs, it could spell trouble for you.”

He doesn’t say anything, so she pushes on. “If our groups form an alliance, we can at least keep the balance of power in check. Prevent them from fully taking control of this place and pushing us out.”

“You think _my_ gang,” Big Red gestures to the figures under the shade, who are more sentient blocks of biceps than actual men, “needs help from the likes of _them_?” He points to the east wall, where a wiry Theo gives Hermione an upbeat smile and two thumbs up. Next to him, lanky Gio and stout Willoughby are leaning down with their hands on their knees, giddily observing a colorful beetle that sits prettily on the wall.

She gives Big Red a sheepish look. “We’re still actively recruiting,” she assures, quietly.

He levels her with a dead-eyed stare, remaining silent. She squares her shoulders and meets his gaze with as much mettle as she can muster.

Finally, he says, “All right, Mrs. Azkaban. We’ll form an alliance with your gang.”

Hermione makes a strong effort to keep the relieved sigh from escaping her chest. “Good,” she says. “I promise you, Big Red, my group and I will do our best to keep the Hippogriffs from poaching your territory.”

He huffs. “I’m not agreeing to this because I need help from your gang,” he says. “I’m doing this because I hear that Cougar bitch hates your guts, and I love giving her hell.”

“Whatever your motivation,” she agrees, “I’m glad you’re joining with us.”

 

* * *

 

“Hmpft!” echoes through the dim room.

Hermione startles awake from her light slumber, and she is greeted by a strange tableau.

Once again, she is surrounded by a few of her cellmates, sleeping deeply near her. The loud exclamation was emitted by a heavy-eyed inmate, who is currently being dragged to her location by her grouchiest companion.

“Malfoy?” she scolds, feeling suddenly alert at the utter bizarreness of the scene arranged in front of her.

Draco stands there, still holding the insensible man by the underarms.

“Granger,” he says in a casual tone. “What do you want?”

“What the bloody hell do you mean, ‘what do I want?’” she asks incredulously. “What do you think you’re _doing_?”

He stares at her for a full minute before heaving a defeated sigh.

“Look, Granger, I _told_ you that you shouldn’t be sleeping by yourself, but you wouldn’t fucking listen,” he says curtly. “So, I decided to do something about it.”

“You’re the one responsible for this?” she waves a finger in a half-circle, gesturing to the prisoners surrounding her.

“Yes,” he admits. “Do you think that your nightmares went away by magic? Since you’re too fucking stubborn to listen to good advice, I thought it would be easier for me to just do _this_.”

“How has enclosing me with other people—and against their will, from what it looks like—helped me from having nightmares?” she questions, irritation giving way to genuine curiosity.

Draco surreptitiously looks at a corner of the room, which is empty aside from a large, metal grate that covers a hole on the floor. Hermione hasn’t realized until now that none of her dormmates have ever settled near that part of the room.

“There’s—” he falters, and then clears his throat to try again, this time in a whisper. “There’s something that comes here. Late at night. It—it tends to gravitate to the newer inmates in the room.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “You’re telling me something has been coming for me every night? And it’s responsible for my nightmares?”

He nods and glances nervously at the corner again.

“And how has surrounding me with other people helped with that?”

“From what I can tell,” he states, slowly, “having other people close by, sort of, hides you from it. Keeps it from finding you.”

Her mind jumps to possible implications. “Hides? Like some sort of shield or buffer?” she asks.

Draco shrugs. “I figured it out after a couple of months of being here,” he says. “I noticed that the more people were around me, the less likely it was to pick me out from the group.”

Hermione gapes at him at a sudden realization.

“So, what you mean,” she reasons, “is that for the past couple of weeks, while I’ve been sleeping, you’ve been dragging these men across the room and placing them around me? To keep me from whatever’s been coming in the middle of the night?”

Draco nods his head and shrugs at the same time.

“That’s – that’s so—” she shakes her head, then says in a voice of disbelief, “ _fucking demented_.”

Draco grunts and throws his hands up in the air. The man he was holding drops unceremoniously to the ground with a loud thud and a quiet moan.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco growls. “Of _course_ , this is how you react. I don’t suppose I should expect a ‘thank you’ card to come by Owl anytime soon?”

“You’re using these poor men as literal human shields!” she screeches. “I highly doubt there’s a Hallmark card for that!”

“Really? Are you sure they don’t have a, ‘Thank you for saving me from the Midnight Thought Monster’ card?” he jeers.

“Yes!” she squawks. “Just as sure as I am that they don’t have a card that says, ‘Thank you for building me a fortress of convicts!’”

“You know, these ‘human shields’ are the reason you’ve been getting your beauty sleep,” he says, sounding rebuffed.

“You’re—” she sputters, “unhinged.”

“Resourceful,” he corrects.

“Psychopathic,” she says.

“ _Slytherin_ ,” he retorts.

By now, he has his arms folded defensively in front of his chest, and she has jumped to her feet, mirroring him. They face each other, standing close enough that she can see his dilated pupils in the dim lighting.

“Malfoy,” she says. “It is _preposterous_ that you fail to see—”

She abruptly stops. Breath is stolen from her lungs as if the air in the room is suddenly vacuumed out. The temperature plunges; she feels the cold seep into her bones like it does in her nightmares.

“Fuck,” whispers Draco.

They both turn their heads to the shadowed corner of the room, where the metal grate slowly scrapes across the stone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments/Kudos are very much appreciated!


	5. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: A monster invades her cell at night, while another monster does something that pushes Hermione past her limits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> A/N: A thousand apologies for not updating this story for a long time! Moving, traveling, other writing obligations, and a hand injury have all kept me away from updating my WIPs. 
> 
> If you’re a returning reader, thanks for coming back! I’ve updated all the posted chapters with help from my lovely new beta lolitaweasley! The content is the same—you’re not missing anything regarding plot, but it’s much cleaner now.

A shrill scream bounces off the stone walls of the cell.  Its source—a disheveled man whose name Hermione can’t quite remember—lies quivering on the ground.

From their hiding place on the opposite side of the room, Hermione and Draco carefully stand, surveying the area before approaching the screeching convict. 

“Oy!”  Draco shakes him roughly by the shoulders. The ruffled man opens his eyes, and even in the low light, Hermione sees they are rimmed with tears.

“Wha—happened?” the man blusters.

Draco sighs.  “Nothing.  You were just having a nightmare.  Go back to sleep.”

The man wraps his arms around his knees as he rolls to his side. Soft whimpers emanate from him, and a slight trembling courses through his body like aftershocks.

Hermione stares at Draco in disbelief, her jaws unhinged in an unladylike display as he nonchalantly heads back to their safe space among the huddled mass of bodies.

“’ _Nothing_?’” she squawks.  “What the hell do you mean by _nothing_?  That,” she flails her arms around the room, “was absolutely not _nothing_!”  She stomps over to the cell doors, yelling over her shoulder, “We have to go tell someone—the warden, one of the guards.  _Harry_!  We have to go find Harry, he’ll help us—"

“Granger.”  Draco fixes her with a mordant expression.  When he speaks again, he uses a pedagogical tone.  “Let’s say we get a guard, or the warden, or Saint Potter in here.  What exactly are you going to tell them?”

She sputters, folding her arms in front of her chest.  “What do you mean?  I’m going to tell them that there’s something in here that’s attacking the prisoners!”

He tilts his head, his countenance mocking.  “What _exactly_ are you going to tell them you saw?” he prods.

“Don’t be daft, Malfoy!  I’m going to tell them—that—erm,” she pauses as her face scrunches in confusion. “Well, it looks like…”  A feeling of dread drops into the pit of her stomach as she grasps for a memory of the terrifying creature, only to come up empty. “—and it does that—that _thing_ —” her voice trails weakly.

“Yes?” Draco cocks an eyebrow.

She glances at the spot on the ground next to the poor man, who still shudders in a fetal position, and tries to picture the—whatever it is—that made him release such ear-piercing screams.  Her mind can’t conjure any images to fill in the blank space.  “ _Bugger_.”

“Exactly,” he confirms with a hint of superiority.  “Do you really think—of all the prisoners who have been assigned to this cell in all these years— _you’re_ the only one to have thought of telling the authorities?  Many before you have tried, Granger.  They’ve all since been deemed insane for trying to report a monster that doesn’t exist.”

Hermione shivers, rubbing the goosebumps that still pebbled her skin. She feels the remnant of chill in her bones, despite the room now back to its more comfortable level of warmth.

“But it _does_ exist—”

“Where’s your proof?” snaps Draco. “You can’t describe what it looks like, or exactly what it does.  There’s no trace of it after it’s gone.  How can you be sure you even saw anything in the first place?”

“Surely—surely _Harry_ will believe me,” she murmurs quietly, though even she can hear the uncertainty in her own voice.

“Yeah,” Draco says, and in the low lighting, she can see him roll his eyes.  “I’m sure there’s been nothing in your recent behavior that will make him question your sanity.”

She growls in frustration.  He wanders back to the spot where they hid from the monster.

“It usually comes just once a night, so we should be safe now.  Just try to get some sleep, Granger,” he says as he steps over the sleeping forms on the ground.

Hermione scans the room, unsure of where to settle down for the evening.  She loathes the idea of going back to her usual sleeping spot.

When he notices that she hasn’t moved, Draco gives her an indiscernible look.  He beckons her over with his head, saying, “Come on.  Don’t just stand there like a fucking idiot.”

She hesitates only for a moment before following him into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

Hermione covers her mouth as she releases a prolonged yawn.  She blinks against the light of the midday sun as it beats down on the yard.

“You still having trouble sleeping?” asks Willoughby.

The two of them lean against the east wall as they watch the procession in the middle of the yard.  As the gangs settle into their respective areas, a few “lieutenants” pace the center, partly to eavesdrop on the other groups, but mostly just to posture and intimidate.

As the reps for the Reds and the Griffs puff out their barreled chests and swing their ham-sized fists while they stomp the yard, Theo, per usual, puts on a performance.  He struts around, shoulders hunched forward and hands alternatively smoothing his hair back and greeting random Reds and Wilde Boys with a finger gun like a 1950’s American greaser.

“I would be having trouble sleeping,” she replies as she keeps an eye on the goings-on, “if I had been _trying_.  But, it’s hard to _want_ to shut your eyes when you know there’s a—um—”  She tries once again to picture the thing that haunted them at night, but to no avail.  “Bollocks!”

From the corner of her eye, Willoughby shakes his head with sympathy.  “Still can’t remember, then?”

Hermione sighs in frustration. “For the past few nights, I’ve stayed up to get a look at the damned thing.  I thought maybe the repeated exposure would help me retain something, perhaps even subconsciously.”  Her eyebrows knit together as she mutters, “I _know_ that there’s something there, and I know what it _feels_ like when it’s in the room.  But every time I picture it— _nothing_.”

Willoughby hums.  “It’s just too bad you can’t take a photo of it,” he replies distractedly.

“No, it’s not like we’re allowed cameras—”  She stops abruptly and groans.  “The lack of sleep is turning me into an idiot.”

“What?”

“Do we still have leftover supplies from our letter writing campaign?”

 

* * *

 

For the first time since being made aware of this monster, she is almost eager for its visit—if only to have the chance to document what she sees.  Muggle pen in hand, she taps it on the stone floor in a frantic rhythm as she stares expectantly at the grate across the room. It has felt like hours since the cell doors slammed shut, locking them in for the night; it is bound to come at any moment.

The _tap-tap-tap_ becomes more frenzied as the weight of anticipation builds in her chest. She feels a hand come down on hers, stilling her nervous tic. She looks up to find Draco giving her a dead-eyed stare.

“Must you?” he asks blandly.

“Sorry,” she whispers, feeling a flush crawl into her cheeks. 

Hermione looks down to where they connect, his large palm warm against her chilled fingers. When she glances up again, she meets his lingering gaze. She tilts her head, returning his look with an inquisitive one of her own. As though her hands are suddenly made of _Fiendfyre_ , he jerks away from her touch.

Draco tears his eyes off her and glares at the grate. He clears his throat. “Do you—uh—do you think it’s going to come soon?” He fills the awkward silence, keeping his eyes forward as he addresses her.

She shrugs a shoulder carelessly. “It’s difficult for me to keep track of the time here, and my inner clock is off from lack of sleep,” she admits.

Draco grunts. The conversation, such as it is, falls into an uncomfortable lull as they sit side-by-side, her shoulder close enough to him that she can feel the light graze of his sleeve when he folds his arms across his chest.

As time wears on, the stillness of the room and the rhythmic breathing of her cellmates beckon sleep to overtake her. She fights the heaviness of her eyelids, though she belatedly realizes she’s losing the battle when she starts to lean to the right. The side of her face comes into contact with Draco’s triceps, which jerk and tense at her touch.

“Granger, you’re falling asleep,” he warns—although he doesn’t move when she briefly leans her temple on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mumbles as she once again straightens up. “I’m up. I’m awake.”

He sighs. “Maybe we should just—”

The back of her neck suddenly prickles as the temperature drops to an icy level. It is quickly followed by the harsh scraping of metal on stone, heralding the return of their midnight monster.

She meets Draco’s grey eyes, which are now steely with determination. He nods sharply. The scraping sound stops, and she scoots closer to him before realizing she has done so.

There’s a sharp clacking that echoes in the room. A movement at the edge of the dim light catches Hermione’s attention; it scurries along the wall, right above where she had been sleeping not too many nights ago. She keeps her eyes glued to the creature, her eyelids retracted and unblinking.

Her hands blindly search for the pen and parchment on the floor. Unable to feel either item, she drops her gaze to the ground. The pen has rolled under the hip of a nearby cellmate.

She shifts to her hands and knees and crawls to the sleeping convict. Reaching for the pen, she feels a momentary triumph when her fingers curl around the small, plastic cylinder.

When she looks up again, she freezes.

The creature hangs directly above her, its long fingers gripping into the deep crevices of the uneven stone on the ceiling. It cocks its head in her direction, as though trying to make her out among the crowd. Behind her, Draco shifts his position and grips her right calf, and she can almost feel him willing her to not move.

Her lungs start to burn from lack of oxygen, but she dares not twitch a single muscle. After a long moment, the creature moves, and the loose dust from the ceiling falls in her hair as the creature passes them overhead. It climbs down the opposite wall to a nearby prisoner, who remains sleeping.

Hermione sucks in a lungful of air. Her muscles want to collapse in relief; instead, she grabs her parchment and starts sketching.

The creature positions itself in front of the prisoner, turning its back to Hermione, and sits on its thin haunches. It places its head directly in front of the prisoner’s face, blocking Hermione’s view. There is a wet, slurping sound, and the man starts to mumble and groan in distress.

Hermione frantically draws what she can see of the creature. Long, lanky limbs. Its skin, grey with a pearly sheen even in the yellow light of the lone torch, adheres to its protruded skeleton. From this distance, she can see each individual vertebra of its spinal column.

But she can’t see its face, and she desperately needs to draw it if she has any hope of identifying the bloody creature.

She crawls slowly, picking her way through the maze of bodies on the ground to get a better view of its face.

“ _Hermione_!” Draco hisses as she moves out of his grasp.

She shuffles closer to where the creature has settled on its victim for the night. When she gets a better view of what the creature is doing to the poor man, she almost retches. She stops short before she makes a sound, not wanting to give herself away. With trembling fingers, she starts drawing the features of its face.

She hears soft rustling at her side as Draco catches up to her. Most of the creature’s face is still painted by shadows; she lifts her hand to crawl even closer to the macabre scene in front of her. Hermione feels a grip on her wrist, and she turns her head to meet Draco’s infuriated gaze.

“I have to get closer!” she whispers.

He shakes his head, his lips pursed and eyebrows knit together.

“But I can’t see its face!” she hisses louder. The creature whips its head in their direction. The grip on her wrist tightens as Draco’s eyes widen in horror.

It crawls over to where they hunker down, covering the short distance quickly with its long limbs. Draco nudges her behind him with his shoulder. It stops directly in front, leaning its face toward them. Even as she bites her lip to keep from screaming, she uses her free hand to frantically sketch the face that hovers in front of her.

It reaches a clawed hand towards her face.

Suddenly, it retracts its arm. It turns to the opening on the floor from whence it came and tilts its head, as though it hears a call.

In a flash, it scampers away. A moment later, the scraping sound of the grate breaks the silence as it disappears into the hole.

 

* * *

 

During her free time the next day, Hermione hurries down the corridor, the folded parchment clutched in her hand. She searches the signs in the hallway as she passes each door.  She tries to temper the feeling of guilt that she has been in Azkaban for months without having yet searched for this room.

When she reaches a set of double doors near the far end, a sense of calm washes over her. The faded plaque near the doorway reads the one word that usually gives her a semblance of comfort, even in the worst of times: Library.

Hermione takes a deep breath and knocks on the wooden paneling, the hollow sound echoing down the hallway. The door cracks open and a wary eye peeks out.

“Mrs. Azkaban?” asks a deep voice on the other side of the door.

“Good morning,” she says, pasting a polite smile on her face. “I know this is Wilde Boys territory, but I’d like to get your permission to peruse the shelves.”

The door creaks open, and a big-boned man opens his arms out wide as he grins broadly at her. “Come in, come in!” He ushers her inside. “We hardly ever get visitors! This is exciting!”

The “library” was the size of one of the reading rooms at Hogwarts—large enough to hold several stacks along the wall, as well as a few study tables tucked in at the corners.

In the middle of the room, a small group sat in a circle of plastic chairs. She turns back to the man who greeted her at the door and tries to remember his name—Erlich, she recalls after a beat.

“We’re just discussing our book of the week! Join us!” Erlich’s gregarious voice booms in the small room. “Have you read _The Way of the Fae_ by Ciara O’Cleary?”

She nods enthusiastically, a genuine smile forming on her face. “Of course!” She parts her lips to extoll her favorite passages—O’Cleary has the most insightful thoughts on the relationship between Leprechauns and gold—but the corner of the folded parchment jabs into the palm of her hand, a sharp reminder of her purpose there.

“Perhaps I can join you some other time,” she says in a mollifying tone.

“Oh, all right,” the large man responds jovially. “To what do owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I was hoping to find some books on mythical and magical creatures. Do you know if this library keeps copies of books by Scamander?”

He swivels his head at the shelves across the room. “Creature books? Yes, I believe there are few in the nonfiction section.” He walks over to a corner of the room, in between short stacks nestled in the dusty corner. Erlich flashes her a sheepish smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not very familiar with this section. We don’t dabble too much into nonfiction books in our reading group—er, I mean, _gang_.” He leans in and gives her a conspiratorial wink. “We used to get hassled by the others before we started calling ourselves the Wilde Boys. None of the others are as friendly or altruistic as your gang.”

“Advocacy group,” she corrects him automatically.

“Right.” He drops another wink. “Do you need me to help you look for any books?” he asks, sparing a longing look at the group awaiting him.

Hermione shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’ll be quite fine on my own.”

He smiles and nods. “Let me know if you need anything.” He makes his way back to the lone empty chair in the circle. They start speaking in hushed tones. She smiles to herself as she runs a finger across the dusty spines along a high shelf.

She reads the faded titles, finding only a handful of books that may aid her search. She takes down a heavy tome, its faded leather layered with a thin film of dust. She blows on the cover, and the words _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ peek through, the gold leaf lettering dulled from age and disuse.

She sets the book down on the nearest table. Glancing around to make sure she is still alone, she unfolds the paper in her hand.

The black lines on the creased paper are disjointed—unsurprising, as she had drawn as much as she could without looking down at the paper. Nevertheless, the features of the creature’s face capture her attention. It has an oblong head, which tapers to a long, pointed chin. She had filled in two circles in the top half, depicting large, dark eyes. She had not drawn a nose, but a wide, horizontal slash ran across the bottom third of its face. From its mouth, a forked tongue curled out in a static slither. Protruding from its temple are two short but pronounced horns.

She shudders at the image; if her rough sketch can give her this reaction, she can only imagine what the creature actually looks like in person. Perhaps she should be grateful that she can’t remember what it really looks like.

She sighs, laying the parchment face-up on the table and opening up the leather-bound book to begin her research.

 

* * *

 

“There was another attack on the Reds last night,” Gio reports as they settle in at their claimed table in the cafeteria. “One of Big Red’s lieutenants got cornered in his cell during lights out. The guards found him bloodied and unconscious this morning.”

Hermione stabs the mystery meat on her metal tray with the plastic tines of her fork. She has spent several nights too afraid to fall asleep and then working her way through the limited selection of creature books in the library during her free time. She has been hoping that the gang situation would stay the way it has been since her confrontation with the Pride: tense and edgy, but mostly just consisting of testosterone-fueled posturing.

“That’s three lieutenants down,” murmurs Draco, who sits across from her with his untouched tray. “The Griffs have been picking off Big Red’s strongest members one by one. And the Pride hasn’t even made a move yet.”

She shakes her head. “That’s what worries me most. Umbridge was never one to let things lie fallow. Do you remember all the petty rules she came up with while she was briefly Headmistress at Hogwarts?” She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “All those proclamations and corresponding punishments? And, let’s not forget that pesky Inquisitorial Squad. Sauntering around the castle with their big, shiny badges. Largely trying to overcompensate for something, I’m sure.” She shoves a large piece of meat in her mouth and chews slowly as Draco shoots her a dark glare. She tweaks an eyebrow and swallows loudly. “What’s wrong?”  she asks, infusing as much innocence into her tone as she bites back a laugh.

“I think you meant to say ‘Present company excluded,’” he barks.

Her lips purse as she shakes her head slowly. The image of Draco in his Hogwarts uniform—taunting her and her friends as the badge gleamed on his chest— flashes in her mind. “Nope,” she says. “That sentiment was complete in its entirety.”

Draco growls as he drives his fork into the center of the gray-brown meat on his tray.

Their group sits in relative silence as the lunchtime crowd jostles around them. The Pads have grown into a respectable number over the past few weeks; many of their newest recruits are large and muscular men. She no longer blushes with embarrassment when she shows off her group to the likes of Big Red and his gang.

The silence between them eats away at the back of her mind, and it takes her another moment to realize why the energy of the group seems to be at a lull.

“Where’s Theo?” She looks up and down the long table, wondering if her wiry friend has somehow just gotten lost among their larger-bodied recruits.

“I haven’t seen him since we left our dormitory this morning,” muses Gio. “He mentioned something about meeting with one of the Reds about the Griffs pushing in on their territory in the yard.”

Her eyebrows knit together as she catches Draco’s eye. His lips form a thin, hard line and the muscles of his jaw twitch. He pushes off his seat and stands abruptly. “I’ll go and look for him,” he says, fixing her a hard glare. “Stay here—”

She tosses her fork onto her metal tray, slamming her fists on the table and propping herself up to her full height. “I beg your bloody pardon?” she spits. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Obviously, Granger, I’m going to go find one of _your_ missing lieutenants,” he sneers. “If you haven’t been paying attention, our ally seems to be losing _his_ in the last few days, and I’d hate to have us suffer a similar predicament.”

“Don’t you think they see _you_ as one of my lieutenants as well? Do you really think it’s safe for you to go prancing about the prison on your own—”

“I don’t bloody _prance_ ,” he interrupts scathingly.

“It’s true,” calls a voice approaching them. “He more or less saunters down the halls. It’s a different rhythm than a prance. Less floaty.”

Her shoulders sag in relief at Theo’s voice, but they shoot up to her ears when she gets a good look at her friend.

“Hi,” Theo says with an uncharacteristically timid smile. It’s a lopsided one, as well; the bruise on his left cheek makes his smile asymmetrical. His left eye is swollen shut, and blood is crusted on his collar. “So,” he says, his voice shaky. “What did I miss?”

 

* * *

 

“ _Umbridge_!” she bellows as she storms into the common room. Two of Umbridge’s bald goons stand protectively in front when they see Hermione approach, her sizable constituents trailing behind.

Hermione rails at the men of the Pride, who create a physical barricade between her and her target. “You better come out here and face me, you toad-faced, squat, little _bitch_!”

There is an audible gasp on both sides; Hermione feels everyone’s eyes fall on her.

“ _Hem-hem!_ ” Two of the men part, and Umbridge steps through to face Hermione.

Umbridge pinches her lips together before opening them again with a snarl. “Miss—”

“No,” Hermione growls, thrusting her palm out at Umbridge’s face. “You don’t get to talk right now. Not unless you can tell me which one of your boy toys—” she waves her arms about at the bald men, who edge closer to her, “—is responsible for _this_.” Hermione points to Theo.

Umbridge considers Theo coolly before returning her gaze to Hermione, a smirk prominent on her face. “I don’t see a problem,” she simpers. “If you’re having trouble with your members, then perhaps you should consider disbanding. It would be a shame if anything happened to anyone else in your little _advocacy group_.”

Hermione clenches her teeth, feeling rage rip out her chest. Her lips pull back into a snarl. “ _Gang_ ,” She steps up to Umbridge, the tip of her nose nearly touching Umbridge’s squat muzzle. “We’re a bloody gang. _My_ gang,” she threatens. “And if you fuck with my gang, you’re going to suffer the consequences.”

She turns to go, but as she marches out of the room, she hears Umbridge call after her. “Looking forward to your letter writing campaign against me, _dearie_.”

Hermione stops in her tracks, her hands fisted and shaking at her sides.

She pivots and rushes back to Umbridge. “I’ve got a letter for you, right here!” She cocks her arm back and whips it forward, the heel of her open palm hitting Umbridge’s cheek with a loud _smack!_

Hermione opens her mouth with another retort, but in the next second, finds that she can no longer speak. She feels the large, beefy fingers of one of Umbridge’s men press into her trachea, cutting off her air supply. He lifts her up by the neck, only the tips of her toes scraping the ground.

As her vision begins to darken and narrow, she hears sounds of pandemonium as the Pride and the Pads tear into battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated!


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